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<title>Read This As Madness by softplacetonest (aurorasparrowmist)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26492608">Read This As Madness</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurorasparrowmist/pseuds/softplacetonest'>softplacetonest (aurorasparrowmist)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>NCT (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst, Character Study, Cigars, F/F, Implied/Referenced Infidelity, Mythical Beings &amp; Creatures, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smoking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:49:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,745</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26492608</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurorasparrowmist/pseuds/softplacetonest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Yuta takes the bloodied knife from Taeyong’s hand and wipes a line clean from the blade. She pushes her fingers into the saltwater of Taeyong’s yielding mouth. Yuta waits for the suction of a riptide and the swallow of a throat.</p>
</blockquote><p>Every Thursday night, Yuta plays a game.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lee Taeyong/Nakamoto Yuta, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Read This As Madness</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Every Thursday evening, Yuta plays a game with herself. She pulls out the ivory inlaid case from the top shelf and brings it to the </span>
  <em>plein air</em>
  <span> setup on her fire escape. The box opens, and out comes five cigars. They line up side by side, little parallel lines of tightly rolled tobacco leaves. She runs sweetness under her nose and pulls out a knife. Blade meets cap meets skin, and Yuta fingerdances bloody sunset patterns into her arm. Yuta perches on the fire escape railing of her highrise apartment and dangles her toes eighteen stories above the nightlife traffic bloodlining the city. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rules are simple. Prepare the matches, apply the fire—careful, no relights allowed. Watch the flame turn into embers. Measure the weight of each puff as the night sky burns holes into tightly wound memories. First ash to the thought of flight. Second ash to the echo of waves crashing against a crumbling cliffside. Third, fourth, fifth ash to every impression of aerodynamics. It is 8 o’clock now; try to last until 3. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even this high above the city—even with smoke filling Yuta’s every breath and clinging to the back of her teeth—there’s still too much oxygen.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The apartment door clicks open at precisely 9:45. Yuta is halfway through a second light, and her ears reach for the soft clink of keys on the counter and the sigh of kitten heels slipping off drowsy feet. Taeyong never could get used to walking. Yuta waits for the clumsy pad of feet to busy their way through the main living space and climb through the open window. Cold lips meet the juncture of her neck as Taeyong wraps linen-covered arms up and under the hem of Yuta’s muscle tee. Her fingers curl up against the warmth of Yuta sternum, and Yuta leans back into a shivering shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong smells like driftwood and old rot. Dampness rises off her in waves, and Yuta turns her head to blow smoke across the small sliver of skin Taeyong allows between the collar of her high collared blouse and the edge of her polished updo. Whisper-thin strands of hair come free in the breeze, and Yuta catches one between her teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did it go with your husband?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong lets out a weary sigh. “He still has Mark’s pelt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And Mark?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You would know more than me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta thinks about the three unread messages blinking from the ansaphone. “He’s enjoying his classes. Made some friends; I think he mentioned a Lucas. He’s adjusting. He misses you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s trapped. He misses what I represent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it matter?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It does when it’s my fault.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta shakes off the first ash of her second cigar. It always goes faster with Taeyong around. Cries drift up from the fifteenth-floor window—Donghyuck, laughing off a withdrawal. Doyoung must be getting restless. Taeyong burrows deeper into Yuta’s neck. Her mouth catches on the ragged scars roped over Yuta’s shoulders as the crash of tumbling cookware—<em>Fuck you, unnie! Entitled bitch</em>—and gasping sobs—<em>I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, please don’t leave me, Doie, I promise no more</em>—rise into the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong muffles a cough as a breeze blows smoke back into Taeyong’s face. “Those things will kill you,” she scolds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta barks a laugh. As if Yuta doesn’t know that Taeyong regularly bathes with collapsed lungs to remind herself how to drown. She acts so righteously, sometimes, with her highlife of pearls and champagne and a-line silk charmeuse. Yuta sees her occasionally, between the daylight shine of high society wives taking brunch on gated patios. Skin powdered and rouged, hair sculpted to perfection, a small gloved hand carefully spooning clotted cream into a delicate mouth. She would lean forward as if interested in the mundane natterings of mundane women. As if she was just another gilded trophy wife, caged and tamped down into submission.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She and Taeyong are of the same make; Yuta just knows better than to play pretend.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Time was, Taeyong would wear her hair long and unencumbered by pins and combs. Time was, Taeyong could walk through city traffic with her eyes closed and come out the other side unscathed. She would glide across the ballroom floor with bare feet and a salacious grin and never miss a step. The Last Word still sang brazen on her mouth and silver-white hair flared like a banner—
  <em>look, I am all that you desire
  </em>. Marriage sat like a shining novelty on her shoulders, and the rock on her finger held more excitement than the ocean-slick rocks she used to rule beneath her feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, on the days that Yuta manages to get her to loosen her updo from its obstructions, Taeyong wraps her hair around her like a shroud. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Yuta falls on Taeyong like a storm. She plummets into the wet sea of Taeyong’s mouth and curls the remaining smoke on her breath underneath Taeyong’s tongue. The cigar drops through the grating of the fire escape as Yuta twists her torso to dig her nails into the sides of Taeyong’s jaw. She pulls back and watches Taeyong gasp after her. Taeyong cradles her hands against her chest, and she stills as Yuta tilts her chin back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong looks like a picture. She’s still tied up in her crisp linen pantsuit, blouse buttoned to her throat, and her hair is coiffed up and out of the way. Her mouth is a smeared mess of Givenchy red. Yuta thinks of fresh prey, of the animalistic satisfaction of drawing first blood, and leans forward to gently bite at Taeyong’s lip. Yuta stares up into Taeyong’s eyes, glittered and half-shut from restrained desire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They plunge back through the open window, stumbling blindly towards the cavern of Yuta’s bedroom. Taeyong’s hands are a solid weight against Yuta’s craw. Somewhere between the makeshift pallet kitchen island and Yuta’s mouth, Taeyong’s jacket gets lost. As they cross the threshold of the bedroom, Yuta reaches up and claws at Taeyong’s high-swept bun until it falls in unruly waves across both their shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong offers her wrists to Yuta. She presses a kiss against the visible pattern of blue veins before freeing Taeyong of the pearlescent buttons on her cuffs. Yuta reaches for the top button of Taeyong’s blouse and watches her breath stutter as she pushes the fastener into the hollow of Taeyong’s throat. One, two—<em>remember, you don’t need air to breathe</em>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She unbuttons Taeyong’s blouse, and the silk slips off her shoulders like a parting sea. There is a froth of lace across Taeyong’s chest that Yuta is quick to clear. Taeyong remains silent as Yuta grazes her thumb across the tight muscles of her neck and along the curve of a breast. The sharp jut of ribs and Taeyong’s soft belly reminds Yuta of castaways after a squall; free game, fresh pickings, <em>mine to feast</em>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuta brings Taeyong’s hands to cup behind her ears and draws her close. Taeyong looks at her with big wet eyes and Yuta closes her own against the force of it. She leans in and drags her nose up Taeyong’s jugular and smells brine. She must have snuck in a bite of fish today, between the pleasure of entertaining company and the pleasure of captivity. Yuta’s mouth salivates at the image of Taeyong, ravenous and feral, feasting over the kill. Did she miss it? How did it feel, to have flesh and viscera break against her teeth? Was it eaten in a rush, or was it secreted away and savoured in the darkness? Did she roll that little strip of belly fat in the corner of her cheek to tongue at when the diet of watercress salads and cucumber sandwiches became thick enough to choke on? Yuta latches her mouth to a vein and sucks, grasping at the faded scent memory of prey. Taeyong acts so placid that sometimes Yuta forgets that she too is carnivorous.</span>
</p><p>Bruises show up easily on Taeyong’s shiny pale skin, and Yuta lays down a kiss of teeth before falling to her knees and biting at the hipbone peeking out from the waistband of Taeyong’s linen pants. She is so still, eyes facing forward and staring at the cracks in the wallpaper, and Yuta tamps down the urge to tear flesh from bone. </p><p>
  <span>“Taeyong,” Yuta intones. Her fingers flicker in response. Yuta ducks her head under one of Taeyong’s palms and lets herself enjoy the feeling of it falling through her hair. “You don’t have to be quiet with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong shudders. Yuta waits, keeled down in the undertow of anticipation, and watches for a ripple in the water.</span>
</p><p>A silent screech of air escapes a closed throat as Taeyong dives down into Yuta’s mouth, swallowing her tongue whole and dragging her up off the hardwood. Acrylics carve into the muscle of Yuta’s back and leave lines of red parallel to the scars twisting down her shoulder blades. Taeyong pulls back, eyes wild, and affixes her hands in a collar around Yuta’s neck. Yuta’s face splits into a feral smile as she leans into the pressure and readily replaces the chokehold of scarring forged across her thoracic outlet with the rendering of Taeyong’s touch. </p><p>
  <span>“Speak,” Yuta gasps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong leans in, eyes closed, and sounds poetry against Yuta’s insolence.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Yuta tries to imagine Taeyong—the real creature, not some amalgam of propriety. Moonglow skin and a stream of starlit hair, mouth curled into a snarl. Taeyong dances among the rocks as the sky bows down to feel her fingertips. She paints a dying song onto the shore—shifting, impermanent, gleaming. Silver hair seeks out sharp edges of rock as Taeyong balances on the knife’s point that separates the sublime from the ordinary. It would only take seven drops of blood to call a storm, but her feet refuse to falter. Seaglass rot astringent in the nose and rancid on the tongue—<em>who is this woman, this extraordinary creature, how can I make her mine</em>—she is Venus emerging from seafoam, primal and raging and glorious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Yuta had still been whole, she would have spotted that shiny head of hair from a mile away and ripped it screeching from Taeyong’s scalp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They are not those women anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong blows out a shivering breath and tucks herself closer to the warmth of Yuta’s back. The otherworldly Taeyong disappears amongst the waves of Yuta’s imagination with a mottled shock of fur clinging to her shoulders</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/aurasparrowmist">twt</a> | <a href="https://curiouscat.me/aurasparrowmist">cc</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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